


Just a Little Joke

by Blueskullcandy



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess???, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Not Anymore, at least, everyone else appears but they have like one line, four doesn't really care all that much about his height, legend you gotta stop bullying people, my usual lol, not really sure how else to tag, please I'm begging you, they have an emotional talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueskullcandy/pseuds/Blueskullcandy
Summary: It starts, as most things tend to with them, as a joke.A really horrible little joke.Emphasis on little.
Relationships: Four & Twilight & Wild (Linked Universe)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 379





	Just a Little Joke

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This was written months ago for the Linked Universe Zine, which came out today, which is why I'm finally posting it! Hope you guys like my usual of "vaguely emotionally cathartic conversation" and I hope you guys all go check out the zine!!!
> 
> No content warning for this one.
> 
> Enjoy.

It starts out like just about every other night they’ve spent together thus far: the nine of them gathered around a campfire for dinner.

It starts with Time finally,  _ finally,  _ calling it for the day. It starts with all of them groaning out some kind of relief at the prospect of resting, the lot of them lethargically going about setting up camp. 

It starts with Wild handing out meals that have no business being as good as they are, having been made on the road in a single pot and a limited amount of ingredients. It starts with the silence that falls over their group as they eat, the quiet that comes with a squad of people exhausted in body and mind tucking into a good meal with gracious fervor. 

But most of all, it starts when Legend finishes his meal, his spoon clanking loudly against the side of his wooden bowl as he leans back on his stump with an extremely self satisfied expression–legs crossed, brows low, smile indulgent, and eyes half-lidded– as he surveys the assembled heroes, looking for a target. 

It starts, as most things tend to with them, as a joke.

A really horrible little joke.

Emphasis on little.

“So,” Legend says turning in his seat to more directly address Four, voice casual but grinning a grin that just begs to be wiped away with a swift, direct punch, “Is there, like, some kind of evolutionary advantage to being  _ that _ small or…?”

A hush falls over their assembled group, seven heads whipping toward the little smithy, eyes flashing with concern (Sky, Twilight, Hyrule), amused interest (Warriors, Time) and barely restrained anticipation (Wild, Wind) for the fireworks that are sure to come from such an intentionally inflammatory statement 

The last two, however, are sorely disappointed.

Because there are no fireworks. Four doesn't slam himself up from his stump shouting obscenities, he doesn't throw his bowl to the ground as he launches himself at Legend fist, foot, or teeth first.

There is none of that.

Instead, Four’s face remains remarkably bland, the smithy’s eyes half lidded as he blows on a steaming spoonful of his Hearty Mushroom Risotto, eyes trained boredly on Legend’s face. 

He blows and blows and blows and blows on his single spoonful of rice far longer than is strictly necessary, before he finally pops the bite in his mouth. A slight uptick to his lips spells his silent enjoyment of the other’s anticipation of his reply, of Legend’s growing irritation at having not gotten a rise out of him.

He chews slowly, carefully, never letting his eyes wander from Legend’s face until he finally swallows and says in a voice void of any emotion: “I have no clue what you’re referring to, Legend. I’m a normal height for my age.”

“Oh yeah?” Legend scoffs while leaning back in his seat once more, back on an even keel now that he has  _ something _ to work with. “And what age would that be? Eight?”

“Yes,” Four replies simply, hardly pausing to get the word out between another bite of his risotto. 

And whatever response Legend was expecting, that, apparently, wasn’t it. The veteran’s smarmy smile drops off his face as his eyebrows furrow, looking off balance to the point that he actually sits up once more, leaning forward on his stump to send the unruffled smithy a nonplussed look. 

All around, their little circle of heroes break out into chuckles at seeing the Veteran’s antagonism cut short for once, the air of the group growing lighter as Warriors sends an elbow into Legend’s side while Time gives the smallest hero a light, affectionate ruffling of hair as he passes behind to clean his plate. 

After that night, the question and its inevitable response becomes somewhat of a running gag between the group of heroes. If ever a bout of silence becomes too awkward, too heavy, or if everyone just seems to be in the mood for an easy laugh,  _ that  _ question will rear its head once more, falling easily from almost every other hero’s lips:

“Hey, Four? Why  _ are  _ you so small?”

And every time, without fail, Four delivers a different outlandish answer, straight faced and with absolute sincerity. 

“It’s because I didn't drink enough milk as a kid,” Four responds sagely to Wind as they trudge through a snow bank, the two smallest heroes up to their chests in white powder. 

“It’s because I got squished under a Wallmaster once,” he admits to Sky as they hunker down together for a quick rest in a small stony alcove after a long morning of walking through rain, “Never quite recovered.” 

“I grow in reverse,” Four explains to Hyrule as they take a break under a shaded tree after an intense spar. “I was six foot one a few years ago.” The smithy shakes his head, tisking. “Such a shame.”

“Too much picolyte, too little time,” Four says by way of explanation to Time as they stroll through the darkened corridor of a massive, fog filled labyrinth. Then, with a theatrical wince and gag, “It wasn’t pretty.”

“I’m this short through sheer force of will,” he tells Wild once as the two share a tree branch about twenty feet above the ground, a pack of wolves snapping and snarling and howling at them from below. “Any taller and I wouldn't be shin shattering height anymore. Can’t let that happen.”

“I’m not short,” he replies to Warriors, smacking the scarf wearing hero’s hand away from where it was giving him an affectionate noogie, “In my Hyrule, everyone is this size. You guys are freakish giants from my perspective.”

Again and again and again, the heroes ask the question and each time Four replies in kind, garnering laughs and rolled eyes from the others, the exchange little more than a footnote in their everyday routine.

The only member of their entourage who never asks the question of the smithy is Twilight. 

No.

Twilight asks a different question of Four. 

“Doesn’t it bug you?” the pelt wearing hero asks him one day when the two were off collecting firewood together. 

“Doesn’t what bug me?” Four asks in response, eyes still trained on the underbrush as he searches the lush jungle floor for suitable kindling. 

“The jokes. The jabs. The little,” Twilight waves the hand not occupied with wood at Four, grabbing the smithy’s attention as his face screws up, struggling to find the words. 

The farmhand settles on a sigh, his arm dropping back to his side as he droops, eyes falling to the foliage beneath their boots. 

“I don't know,” he admits after a moment, shaking his head. “I just…”

Twilight swallows, eyes closing for a moment, steeling himself, before they flash open and level Four with a serious, yet open stare.

“I’ve seen what a lifetime of little comments can do to someone,” Twilight says. “Even when they’re made off hand. Played off as  _ jokes _ .”

The pelt wearing hero’s face sours at the final word, like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I know they think it's just a gag or something but,” and here the farmhand places a warm hand on Four’s shoulder. Support if needed, “But I can tell them to cut it out if you want.” The older hero flashes a toothy smile, full of fang. “I have no problem raining on anyone’s parade.”

But Four simply shakes his head, a hint of a grin on his face.

“I appreciate the offer, Twi, but really, it doesn't bother me. Believe me, if it did,” Four’s grin expands into a show of teeth, a smile of unspoken threats. No.  _ Promises. “ _ They would know.”

However, after a moment, the Smithy’s face loses it’s vicious touch. The smile becomes softer, more genuine. He steps away from Twilight, letting the hand on his shoulder fall away as he turns back toward the undergrowth, staring out into the endless green. 

He doesnt move to begin searching for more wood.

Neither does Twilight.

Together, they stand in silence, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, dancing to a song all its own.

“I think…” Four starts eventually, words soft but not sad or shy. Merely thoughtful. “I think it would have bothered me a few years ago. When the wound was still fresh.” 

Twilight remains silent and keeps his eyes trained on the treetops, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Beside him, Four takes a deep breath in, holds it, and then releases it to the wind. 

After a moment, he looks up at Twilight, face considering. The farmhand can practically feel the smaller tracing the dark swirl of his tattoo, as if the shorter hero’s very gaze had a phantom weight. 

“Did you ever try to get rid of those?”

The question catches Twilight off guard. 

No one… No one had ever asked him that before. To all the people of Ordon Village, the tattoos were just that: tattoos. Voluntary. Something that Twilight had received at some point during his journey. A mark of victory, a sign that he would finish what he set out to do.

They didn't know that they had only appeared after Zant had laid a curse on him. After a shard of dark magic was condensed and sharpened and agonizingly driven into his skull. After he had found the sword of evil’s bane and used it to cure himself only to find that he was forever scarred by the usurper king’s borrowed power. 

“I did,” Twilight replies truthfully, if a bit halting. The memory is vivid,  _ painful  _ behind the farmhand’s eyes. It prickles at his forehead. Phantom claws sink into the skin there, deeper deeper deeper. “I spent hours trying to scrub them off in a stream. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until… Until I was just tearing at the skin.”

Twilight shakes his head, shooing the memory away. A hand reflectively reaches up to comb through his hair, exactly where the swirls lie. His smile is a ghost. Dead and filled with a past better left unspoken.

“Even the scabs couldn't hide them.”

“I’m sorry,” Four says and Twilight can tell that he means it. His face is contorted with not only guilt, but  _ empathy,  _ eyes a warm, sorrowful amber _.  _ “That was a callous question. I shouldn't have–”

Twilight interrupts him with a wave. 

“It’s okay. Like you said, the wounds are old. Almost completely healed.” 

“Still,” The smaller says, giving the older a meaningful look. “I apologize. It does no good to poke at another’s scars.”

He turns his eyes to the forest and they lapse back into quiet. 

“I asked because I think...” the small hero starts after a moment, “I think some people are built for magic. They can unearth it within themselves, refine it through years of training, and wield it’s honed power however they choose. Zelda, my best friend is like that. Hyrule is too.’

“But others,” and Four turns once more to stare directly into Twilight’s eyes. Before him, the farmhand swears the light catches differently at the smithy’s irises every other second, flash after flash of color. “Others simply cannot handle it. It is unnatural to them. Foreign to their bodies. So foreign that when it is introduced, voluntarily or otherwise… it leaves a mark.”

The smithy takes a breath and then continues. 

“Minish magic is small,” he explains, face screwed up as though each word is a struggle, “You can find it almost everywhere you look in little, everyday miracles. A spare rupee in the grass. Finding the perfect match to your kinstone. Your favorite book appearing on your desk when you need it most. Small things, but important nonetheless.” 

“When my companion, Ezlo, first used it to make me small enough to visit the other Minish, it didn't hurt. It felt… it felt like…” The smithy pauses, a little huff breezing past his lips as he shakes his head. “It sounds dumb, but it felt like trying hot cocoa for the first time. Warm and homey and sweet and just… sort of happy.”

The smithy pauses. The small smile that was growing on his face wilts, drooping under the weight of his furrowing brows. 

“But no matter how happy it made me feel, it still left its mark. Even if it is an invisible one.”

The puzzle pieces of Twilight’s mind slot into place, neat and terrible.

“Your height,” he breathes, the words spilling from his mouth, unbidden and true.

The smithy merely nods. 

“Honestly, the Veteran wasn't far off the mark with his age observation,” he says after a moment. “I haven't grown since I was ten years old. Not a single centimeter in six years.”

And Twilight… Twilight isn’t sure what to say to that. 

So instead, he reaches a hand out to the younger but lets it hang, allowing Four to decide if he accepts the gesture. Thankfully, he does. The smithy steps closer to the farmhand’s side, allowing the older’s arm to reach around his shoulder, pulling him into a warm side hug.

“I’ve made my peace with it,” Four continues softly. Not sadly. Just sort of thoughtful. “I mean, it's out of my control, whether it pains me or not. What’s done is done. And besides,” and here, Twilight can hear some humor come back to the smithy’s voice, “There was no guarantee I was going to grow much more anyway. Based on my grandpa’s height… well, lets just say being on the shorter end runs in the family and this apple certainly doesn't fall far from the tree.”

Twilight feels the smithy’s shoulder shift against his side as he gives a short, wry laugh. 

“Isn't it funny how life moves on? How something that seems like it would define your life just… doesn't? How other things can come along and make that mountain into a molehill.”

The smithy brings a hand up, examining his palm. He flexes his fingers, one, two, three, four times. As though checking to see that he still could. 

“Funny,” Four says again, his voice far away.

The small hero shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. He pulls away from Twilight’s side, gathers the last bit of kindling they need and the turns to face the farmhand once more, a faint smile on his lips.

“Ready to head back?” Four asks.

“Yeah,” Twilight, his upturned lips mirroring the smithy’s. “Lead the way, Little One.”

Four grins at the term of endearment. 

And then turns and does exactly that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Four, when will I run out of emotional conversations to write for you? Never! Thats when.
> 
> Also, I'm a *real* big fan of Twilight and Four being friends. idk man, I just feel like they would see eye to eye often (philosophically, if not physically)
> 
> Hope you guys liked!!!
> 
> Stay safe y'all!!!


End file.
